Into You Series: The Complete Collection

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

I t takes one hot shower, two fluffy slippers, and three Band-Aids to heal my feet. Unfortunately, I’ve had less than twenty-four hours to make sure the rest of me is in tip-top shape for my date with Wes. He has kept his epic date plans to himself, but that’s fine; I have plans of my own.

Step one: convince Grace to go to Corinne’s for a girls’ night. I think I pretended to be stressed enough for her to believe I needed a quiet night in. I conveniently left out the mention of Wes.

Step two: shave until I’m smooth everywhere. And I mean everywhere .

Step three: throw out those stilettos for good, because who needs heels anyway when you’re tussling in bed, right?

Step four: SECURE. CONDOMS.

By the time there’s a knock at my door at eight o’clock, I have journeyed to the campus convenience store, avoided eye contact with the cashier with my razor and box of condoms, and cleaned the closet of those dumb shoes. Now I’m standing barefoot in a low-cut bodycon dress and red lips that could kill.

I swing the door open and god, if I wasn’t nervous already, the sight of him would have kicked that switch right on. I thought I liked him in band shirts, but I’ll take him in a plaid flannel button-up any day. The cut is perfectly fit to his strong torso and just below the slightly open collar, I see a new chest tattoo I haven’t noticed before.

I need to see more of that.

His eyes widen at my own outfit, and I can’t help but feel proud even though the tight dress might be a size too small for my larger chest.

“Hey,” I say. I’m balancing from one foot to the next, trying to put on some form of a sexy pose, and I thank the heavens he’s too busy trailing over my curves to notice my wavering expression that is quickly shifting from excited to downright nervous as hell.

“I’m gonna knock something out real quick if that’s okay with you,” he says.

A smile tugs at my lips as I tilt my head to the side.

“And what’s that?”

In one smooth motion, Wes takes a step into the room, kicks the door shut, and presses his mouth to mine.

It’s everything I’ve been dreaming about since last night. It’s the rush of air, the blur of vision, the hot, hot heat dripping from our lips into my stomach and down to my thighs. It’s an added bonus to anything I could have imagined in this lifetime.

I bite his lower lip between kisses. His low moan in response rumbles through my mouth and into the pit of my stomach. I can feel the want tensing between my thighs, a voice telling me that I would do anything he asked if I could simply crawl onto his lap and have him right here, right now.

I take a step back, leading him to our couch under my lofted bed, trying to feel my way through the room until the back of my calf hits the edge.

Wes plants a few slower kisses, one after the other, trailing away from my lips to reach my neck and then my shoulder until he stops to pull away. I miss his touch instantly.

“I just had to do that again,” he says with a smile. His confidence in stating this only makes me wonder what else he’s confident in.

“Then why are we stopping?” I ask.

My hands go to his shirt, fumbling to undo the top button, exposing more of his chest tattoo—another geometric masterpiece that spans from each edge of his body. I wonder how far down it goes. I also wonder if I have the guts to unbutton more of his shirt.

I fall back on the couch, almost as ungraceful as I was in heels the night before but trying to maintain the smolder in my gaze when our eyes meet.

His expression changes, from eye-fucking me to a slight frown.

“What?” I ask. “Are you coming down here with me?” I pat the cushion beside me, which elicits a small laugh from him, but he doesn’t move. Instead his hand goes to his hair, scratching the back of his neck.

“Just so I know, is this what you meant by first date?” he asks, gesturing to the couch with his hand palm up.

“Maybe,” I respond. “Is that not what you meant?”

He nods slowly, bending down to rest his elbows on his knees in front of me, like a parent giving a speech to their child. I feel so small.

We exchange stares, but it’s not awkward. In fact, any sense of unease flows out of me as I study his green eyes. They’re even more wild with color than I’d thought before. I could get lost if I stare at them any longer.

I break away to glance at his chest again—the tattoo exposed between a patch of dark-brown chest hair. I reach my hand out, tracing my fingertips over the lines and intricate details.

“This one is my new favorite,” I say.

He chuckles. “I think you just like the newest one you see.”

“Then show me more,” I mutter.

I’ve always been the bold one, but now, here—sitting across from a man who makes the world fall quiet—it feels like an act. In my gut, I suddenly wish we were at some fancy table in a restaurant downtown. I wish he was making jokes across the table, that we were talking about music, and laughing. We can still have that afterward, right? Because the fact of the matter is, I actually like Wes. More than just for sex. And I now hope he likes me too.

I meet his gaze again and his eyes have softened, focused on me, not just how I look but as if he’s reading me in a way that only my best friend has ever been able to do. The string between us feels tight around my chest; we’re playing a game of tug-of-war that I’m losing.

I lean in and take the chance to kiss his collar and then again at the top of his chest tattoo.

“I think I’m in trouble,” I mutter.

His chest rumbles beneath my lips, and his fingers stroke my back.

“Why’s that?”

I open my mouth to speak, but then I hear the doorknob attempt to turn and catch.

“Ray?”

It’s Grace. Shit .

“Hang on!” I call, except I’m not exactly sure where to go from here. I always heard stories about college kids walking in on their roommates doing it, but never walking in on them staring lovingly into the other person’s eyes. I’d rather we were having sex at this point.

“Sorry, I know you’re studying. Corinne has a bad cold and I don’t want …” Her purse stops rustling. “Dang it, forgot my keys. Can you let me in?”

“Just a sex!” I yell, closing my eyes when I realize my slip-up.

Wes smiles at me but I don’t linger.

“Is that code?” she asks through the door. “Oh, how did last night go?” she calls, and then my heart stops because I know what’s coming next. “Did Project: PT—” The rest of her sentence doesn’t even register in my mind. I think I black out, if I’m being honest. A light ringing catches in my ear, just like in the movies, except I’m missing some form of an explosion that would cause it. I guess the detonation of my entire life is enough to cause slight mental nausea.

“What’s Project: PT?”

Wes’s voice brings me back to the moment, easily followed by Grace’s high-pitched squeal outside the door.

Her call of “ Shit! ” doesn’t make me feel any better. The curse followed by “Is he here?” is enough to make me hurl.

The crease between Wes’s eyebrows deepens.

“I … it’s” —best not to lie; maybe he’ll find it funny—“Project: Pound Town?” I lift an eyebrow, giving as innocent a smile as I can manage, but I know how it sounds, because it doesn’t just sound bad. It is bad.

I shake my hands at Wes, but he’s already standing up, taking care to button his shirt as he exhales. He’s smiling as he does it, but I can tell it’s not a joyful one. It seems more incredulous, offended, and capable of collapsing my stomach into the couch.

“Wes, hang on.”

“You were just using me for some freshman bucket list?” He shakes his head. “Real nice.”

“That’s a really simplified way of putting it.”

“Then put it in a better way.”

“I … wanted a fuck buddy?—”

Yep. Sounds horrible.

“Yeah, I don’t think it can get more simplified, Ray. Thanks for giving me the honor, but I think I’m good.”

He smooths his shirt and whips open the door, causing Grace to move out of the way. Hank leaps to put his front paws on him and—bless his kindness—Wes gives the good dog a slight pat on the head before storming down the hall to his own room and shutting the door behind him.

Grace and I do not exchange words until she and Hank are in the room and the door is closed, but then the onslaught of hissed whispers begins.

“Are you kidding me, Grace?!”

“What, me?!” she says. “What are you doing ?” She gestures to my bodycon dress. “You don’t even know him!”

“Don’t chastise me, Mom .”

“You’re calling me Mom? What about you? Quarter-life crisis much?”

“Judge much?”

“Much much?!”

And with that, our dignities clearly intact and our insult skills up to par, we go to our respective lofted beds and roll away to face the wall, still in our day clothes and all.